


Ice Cream

by doctormissy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Humor, Ice Cream, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, mentions of Moneypenny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I bought us ice cream,” said Q when he entered the common dining room at Six, where he saw James already waiting for him at one of the square tables. “It’s a combination of vanilla and pistachio.” </p>
<p>The agent looked at him with a smile, putting a fork with still some pasta on it aside to the plate. “Excellent,” he said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the RP I mentioned in my latest fic (two per day, what a wonder). Like I said, my mum was Q and I was Bond and we did this when we were eating the very same ice cream. She started this and of course it made me roar with laughter, that conv, but of course I had to continue and then actually write it.   
> It's nothing, just some cracky (yeah again) petty shit about them sitting in the dining room and eating ice cream.

“I bought us ice cream,” said Q when he entered the common dining room at Six, where he saw James already waiting for him at one of the square tables. “It’s a combination of vanilla and pistachio.” 

The agent looked at him with a smile, putting a fork with still some pasta on it aside to the plate. “Excellent,” he said.

“But you’ll say it tastes of almonds anyway, as you always do.”

Q held a small box with vanilla-pistachio ice in his hand and showed it to James (he allowed himself to use his first name since this was basically a date) before he put it on the countertop and took off his messenger bag. He opened the first drawer, from which he pulled out two teaspoons and a normal one to portion the ice with. Bond continued eating his tomato pasta with cheese on it wordlessly.

The Quartermaster opened the tub and sank the spoon into it. But it was deeply frozen, so he was not able to scoop up the ice without waiting for minimum of five minutes. However, he got an idea how to get the ice cream from it right away – he reached for a sharp Swiss knife that could cut through the cardboard and split the tub in half. The only thing he had to do then was to cut the ice itself and put it in two bowls that he carried to the table.

Q assessed the bowl and found it boring and ordinary (there was more vanilla than pistachio, which he liked more), so he stood up again, offering an explanation for James and his raised eyebrow, “I’ll put some cocoa on it.” He searched through the cupboards for a while before he found a raspberry-jam glass half-full of cocoa and brought it to the table. He poured some of it (quite a lot, James thought) on the vanilla part and offered the glass to James, “Do you want some too?”

“Why not,” he replied, shrugged and accepted it. He put lot less than Q on his ice, tasted it and considered it better. “It’s actually better, thank you, Q.”

“No, no, it still misses something,” Q pondered, looking at it and watching it melt. Then, his eyes brightened up and he got up for the second time, going toward the fridge, where he found Moneypenny’s home-made blackcurrant jam and put some of that on it too. She said Q could, but him only, because she knew the agents would devour it all in two days. 

“Now that’s better,” he tasted the vanilla ice cream with cocoa and jam. His eyes only enthused over it and seeing Q like that made James lean over the table and steal a spoonful of his ice. Nevertheless, James’ expression wasn’t that enthusiastic. 

“It’s disgusting,” he said, his wry face speaking for itself. That remark offended Q a little, but then again, he could not be mad at 007 for long if it didn’t concern lost or damaged equipment. Bond got back to his own ice, that was quite melted already, which kind of ruled out the option of eating it in a dignified manner.

Apparently, sour blackcurrant jam and cocoa on vanilla ice wasn’t his cup of tea.

“I can’t eat it properly, it keeps turning round!” complained Bond, disgruntled, and that made Q, who of course had no trouble eating it like a gentleman and slowly, smirk. _James Bond, the notorious 007, grumbles about disobedient ice cream and envies Q a little for not having trouble with it._

They continued consuming the ice without uttering a word, since three of M’s minions entered the room and took their sandwiches from the fridge, until James said, “I ate it way too quickly.”

“Oh, and I thought we could do so much yet, but now we won’t get to because you’re going to ice up,” Q retorted, “what a tragedy indeed.” A snort came out of Q’s mouth full of ice cream – he ate all the vanilla and had only the green one left now. 

James smiled and rolled his eyes. Then he, unexpectedly, stood up and carried his bowl to the sink and left it there. He did not wash it, despite the large white sign saying ‘AGENTS, DO THE DAMN DISHES’ written in Moneypenny’s neat writing with ‘that applies especially to you, 007′ under it that was attached to the cupboard right above the sink so those it was addressed to had to look at it every time and could feel guilty whenever they disobeyed the order. It was put there for a reason and Bond expressed quite the affirmation by the gesture.

Q is the one to do the washing-up again, isn’t he? But now he can enjoy the rest of his rather strange ice cream and this quite well-spent time relatively alone with James. He did not mind they didn’t even talk very much, it was simply nice and it was a pleasant break from work and an excuse to get out and ease his mind. 

“I buy you ice cream the next time, Q,” said James softly as he approached Q from behind, put his hands on his shoulders and pressed a soft kiss on the side of his cheek that made blush spread across his neck and ears quickly, although he tried hard not to allow so. He smelled like expensive cologne, tomatoes and the ice cream. “But I’m afraid I must be on my way to M now. Reports and all that. Meet me at nine for dinner?”

Q looked up from his bowl. “Sure.” He knew exactly where; it didn’t need asking. “I can’t wait.” 

Q gave James one more shy smile and watched his figure swing from side to side (Rather suggestively, he noticed. That bastard.) as he walked away. He ate the last bite of ice and got up. When he saw the pile of dishes left by all of Six personnel. 

He sighed. Oh, the bloody Double-Ohs.


End file.
